Something rotten in Dorset

There is something fishy going on in Dorset i.e. my Mum is not at all up to her usual standard of oppressive cleaning / food monitoring. Having just spent four days in close confinement with the Jif-happy one, I can report only one incident of Janet Riley style dictatorship (Me: Hmmm, what shall I have for lunch. Mum: something with plenty of protein. Me: (evil glint in eye) I shall have chips. With nothing.)

Under normal circumstances, my lackadaisical attitude to food groups / vitamins / cross contamination of butter/jam can end in threats / fines / exile or custodial sentences. And attempts to cook for senior members of family are watched at close proximity with hawk-like determination to ensure heating / stirring / chopping methods meet approved standards (as set by Mum in accordance with the Which Guide to Food Hygiene / Good Housekeeping Fascistic Cooking Manual). But managed to make pasta (admittedly with help of Loyd Grossman) without single interruption.

There are only two possible explanations.

  1. She is on drugs. Which is impossible. She thinks sherry should be reclassified as Class B along with junior Disprin and Herbal Nytol.
  2. She was so stirred by the sight of Dad in his 1970s swimming trunks attempting to surf that she has been overcome with endorphins / stunned into horrified silence.

Whichever. It is very irritating on an inspirational level. She had better get back to her usual banning self soon. I have a novel to write.

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About Joanna Nadin

I write books for children. And teenagers. I like London, New York, Essex, tea, cake, Marmite, Metric, mint imperials, prom dresses, pubs, that bit in the West Wing where Donna tells Josh she wouldn’t stop for a red light if he was in an accident, junk shops, crisps, Cornwall, St Custard’s, Portuguese custard tarts, political geeks, pin-up swimsuits, the Regency, high heels, horses, old songs, my Grandma’s fur coat, vinyl, liner notes, the smell of old books, the feel of a velveteen monkey, Guinness, quiffs, putting my hand in a bin of chicken feed, the 1950s, burlesque, automata, fiddles, flaneuring, gigs in fields on warm summer nights, Bath, the bath.
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